


To Ruined Reputations or Stag Night (The Not-So Really Good Bits)

by Breath4Soul



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (¬‿¬), (ಠ‿↼), (ಥ﹏ಥ), (ง'̀-'́)ง, (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻, Canon Compliant, Caring Lestrade, Closed Curtains, Closeted Character, Clubbing, Drinking, Drinking Games, Drunk John, Drunk Sherlock, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Shenanigans, Fights, First Kiss, Funny, Games, Innuendo, Jail, Jealous John, John Loves Sherlock, John's Jumpers, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mind Palace, Parental Lestrade, Paternal Lestrade, Pining John, Please Don't Hate Me, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Loves John, Singing, Smoking, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 20:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5641669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Everything that happened during John's Stag night that Sherlock didn't want to share in his Best Man speech including dancing and more drinking games.</b><br/>_______________________________</p><p>“Shit. You’re dangerous when you’re drunk,” Sherlock mutters, smoke billowing out of his mouth. His eyes flick up to John. Sherlock’s carefully schooled expressionless face breaks into mortification at the realization that he said that out loud...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Escape

“Now stay out of trouble whilst I go have a chat with the owner of this flat.” Lestrade commands glaring down into the back of the police car. Sherlock and John stare up at him; their glassy eyes and sullen faces making them resemble scolded children. The doctor looks hurt; wide, shimmering eyes and down turned lips making him appear truly repentant. The detective looks indignant; tipping up his chin haughtily and looking away from the DI.

“Maybe if I tell him you are _mental patients_ I can get him to drop the charges.” Lestrade slams the car door and stalks away, mumbling to himself about how babysitting drunkards is _not his division_. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and pulls his face into a disgusted smirk. His head wobbles from side to side in mockery of the inspector.

“Sherlock?” The bleary-eyed shorter man leans forward, falling against the seat. He pushes off bumping his face against Sherlock’s arm. The detective turns to him, swaying a little as he tries to focus. John scoots in closer, whispering, “Are you going to do _the thing_?”

“What _thing_?” Sherlock looks around with wide eyes, brow crumpled in confusion.

“The _thing_ … The radio thing… Like when I chinned the superintendent… Is _that_ the plan?” John smiles up at him lazily, blond lashes fluttering over his tan cheeks as he blinks slowly wearing an expression of trusting expectation.

“Oh… _The plan_.” Sherlock pulls himself up straighter. 

“Yeah…” John continues to whisper. “But not with the gun this time.” The doctor's mouth pulls down at the corners and his chin thrusts out in an exaggerated expression of fear. He shakes his head side to side.

“Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll get us out of this, John.” The younger man assures. His head slowly pivots around checking every direction. Then he suddenly leaps forward tumbling into the front seat. 

John laughs, clapping his hands together in delight then slapping a hand over his own mouth. He looks fearfully out the window in the direction Lestrade had disappeared. 

After a struggle, Sherlock pops up kneeling in the driver’s seat, smiling triumphantly. He holds up a badge, smirking. 

“Lestrade.” Sherlock mutters contemptuously, trying to focus his eyes on the badge. “Adding _this_ to the collection.” He fumbles to find his coat pocket and shoves the badge in. He opens the driver’s side door and tumbles out on to the street all long limbs and expensive wool coat.

“Don’t forget me,” John whispers anxiously moving to his door and trying the handle fruitlessly. 

The curly haired man pops up beside John’s door, his gray eyes a bit wild. He peers around quickly then throws the door open. John clamors out, snickering. He’s barely out of the doorway before the detective pushes him to the ground. 

“Stay low,” Sherlock warns. John nods soberly. He crawls along on hands and knees for a few steps then, getting to his feet, he takes a few steps pushing off with his hands before trying a hunched run. 

Unable to control his trajectory, he wheels off nearly hitting a street pole and stumbling over the kerb before Sherlock grabs his hand and drags him to the alley. The doctor laughs, falling against the building and sliding down to sitting.

“Shhh!” Sherlock waves a hand at his companion and presses himself against the wall, peering back at Lestrade’s police car. The Detective Inspector is striding from the building back towards his car, hands shoved in the pockets of his long brown trench and his shoulders slumping. John slides up beside Sherlock.

“Well, I managed to get him to agree to drop-” Lestrade’s eyes lift to his car; doors open wide. “What the hell?” He peers inside then whips around looking down the street in both directions. “Bloody hell.” He slams the back door angrily. He slides into the driver’s seat and looks around. “Those little bastards… stole my badge, _again!_ ” He mutters angrily.

John grabs Sherlock by the coat lapel and pulls him further into the alley “Come on, let’s go,” He laughs, taking off running. Sherlock smiles broadly and follows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Broken into bite sized little chapters now.
> 
> Share with me your thoughts in the comments!


	2. New Stop on Pub Crawl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having escaped Lestrade and had a good run the boys decide to find some new trouble to get into... which turns out (like most times) to be more than they anticipated when they end up at a 'men's only' pub.

There is only the sound of heavy breathing and fast footfall as they wind their way through the labyrinth of narrow alleyways and streets of London. Lungs burning and dizzy with the exertion, at last John stumbles and falls against a wall palms stinging as they smack against the brick. He rests a moment with his forehead against the cold, rough brick before he turns around and rests his back against it. Sherlock falls back against the wall beside him and they both stand there panting and laughing a moment, adrenaline surging through their blood and buzzing on their nerves as they try to get their breath and hearts back under control.

“Where are we even _going_?” John laughs swiping at the moisture that has gathered in the corner of his eyes, he can not tell if it is from the wind against his face when running or laughing so hard his ribs ache. He rests his hands on his knees and shakes his head. His cheeks aching with the smile he can’t seem to contain. 

Sherlock shrugs and loosens his scarf. “I was only following _you,_ ” he chuckles breathlessly. His smile is wide and genuine, his eyes alight with exhilaration of a good chase. 

“ _That. Was. Ridiculous._ ” The doctor leans back, shoulders sagging against the brick wall, feeling how his hair catches against the rough texture and trying to take in the scent of the London streets and Sherlock. Dark curls bounce as the taller man nods in agreement, a hand slipping into his coat to undo the buttons of his suit jacket. John angles his body towards the other man and puts on a serious face, “Did you actually get _sick_ in that apartment?” His voice is full of disbelief, questioning his own memory. Sherlock looks slightly embarrassed but laughs.

“Clueing for looks,” The detective points at his friend and chuckles. 

“What?”

“That’s what you said.” Sherlock pulls his scarf off and shoves it into his coat pocket.

“Did I?” John runs a hand over his face and giggles, doubling over a little. The brunet nods, his smile pulling off to the side. As the laughter dies down John settles back against the wall again. “God, our reputation is _ruined_ ,” he bemoans tipping back his head and looking up at the small patch of night sky visible between the buildings. They both giggle. After a moment standing there in silence smiling, the detective turns to his blogger, his gray eyes gleaming with a sort of dark and dangerous delight beneath the lamp light.

“Want to go ruin it some more?” 

“Oh, _God_ , yes.” John replies without hesitation looking up at him. 

“Come on then, John.” Sherlock grabs the compact ex-soldier by the arm and pulls him out of the alley and into the street. He squints his eyes, trying to discern where they are. 

“Oh!” Sherlock points across the street a little further down. Music is drifting from that direction. “Pub crawl, John… _New stop_ on our pub crawl!” He grabs John by the arm again and the shorter man stumbles into him.

“What?” John squints up at him.

“Come on, John.” Sherlock herds John ahead of himself with a persistent hand on his lower back across the street and into the pub. Inside, John pushes through the crowd and makes his way to the bar. Sherlock follows behind, pulling out his phone and trying to get his eyes to focus on it enough to bring up their blood alcohol graph. John stops and turns back to Sherlock. He puts a hand over the detective's phone. 

“ _I’m_ doing the ordering,” John states firmly. Sherlock glares at him, but John draws himself up, setting his jaw firmly. Sherlock smirks then gives a little nod.

“Mmm… _Captain_ John Watson,” Sherlock mumbles after John turns away. He slips his phone back into his coat pocket.

After a moment John turns back to him with two shot glasses. He hands one to Sherlock and holds his own up. 

“To ruined reputations.” John clanks his glass against Sherlock’s and downs it. Sherlock watches him, then downs his own in the same manner, his nose wrinkling in displeasure.

John sets his glass on the bar and assesses the pub. Music is a bit loud, but upbeat. The room is not terribly crowded. There is a small dance floor and a stage for a band. John’s eyes narrow. _That is definitely two men dancing together._ He scans the pub again. _There are only men._ John’s eyes widen, he turns to Sherlock, his mouth open to speak. Sherlock has turned away. A young, slight man with slick black hair and a too broad smile is leaning close to Sherlock. 

“…amazing bone structure.” John catches the last part of the man’s sentence. Sherlock smiles faintly and bobs his head. His eyes are drooping sleepily. “Would you like to dance?” The young man asks Sherlock. Sherlock abruptly slams his hand down on the bar.

“I _love_ to dance,” he declares loudly as if he has been waiting _far too long_ for someone to ask that. John feels a surge of anger and he glares at the broadly smiling young man. He places his hand firmly over Sherlock's thinner one that had just slammed down on the bar. Sherlock turns to him.

“There’s _dancing_ , John. Let’s dance!” Before John can object, Sherlock pulls him to the dance floor, shedding his coat as he goes. John glances back towards the bar. The black haired young man is watching with a small frown. John smirks and, for good measure, winks at him. 


	3. Learning to Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock teaches John how to dance.

The thump of music in John's chest and traveling up through the floor makes him feel woozy. He shuffles his feet on the wooden dance floor and stumbles as he feels a hand close around his coat collar and yank down quickly, ripping his coat off. An impressive gesture that John can’t help but feel is familiar in an oddly disturbing way.

“Oh, ok,” John laughs, staggering forward and looking back at Sherlock. His eyes are sparkling and has his mouth turned up in a triumphant smile. The detective dramatically tosses both coats over a chair just off the dance floor.

John glances around, nerves momentarily overtaking the warm, contented swath of alcohol as he takes in the two other couples dancing, bodies intertwining and gyrating against each other provocatively. John clears his throat and looks away, his hand clenching and unclenching at his side. 

His breath catches in his chest as Sherlock steps in front of him and begins moving at once; all quick steps and swiveling hips. The movements somehow both fluid and extremely precise. To John it looks like some sort of samba or maybe a mambo. Sherlock has obviously had professional training and each move seems designed to exaggerate the length and grace of his body. He watches the lean and elegant, surprisingly sensual form with awe; mesmerized as Sherlock circles him. 

“You’re _pretty good,_ ” John laughs rubbing at the back at his neck and blushing. He is slowly beginning to move as well.

“ _Pretty good_?” Sherlock sounds incredulous. He abruptly halts all movement, his tall frame going taut as he steps in closer so that he is looking down at John with intensely serious steel blue eyes. “I’m _very_ good, John,” his voice is deep and full of confidence. John feels his knees buckle. He swallows.

Sherlock steps back and smiles broadly. He winks at John and does a turn on one foot. Then he grabs John by the hand, his other arm wrapping around his waist, large palm pressing flat against the small of the ex-soldier's strong back. He attempts to lead him into a quick step, hand pushing and pulling as hips and feet press forward into John. John stumbles, laughing

“You’ve stepped on my foot,” He protests, pulling away.

“That’s because your foot shouldn’t be _there_ , John.” Sherlock huffs, surprisingly strong arm cinching against John to pull him back close as he surges forward to meet him. He tries to lead the shorter man into the steps but John stumbles backwards, fighting against Sherlock’s lead. Sherlock huffs dropping his arms, silvery blues eyes full of impatience as he stares down into cobalt blue ones. His head is cocked to the side as if trying to figure something out.

“You’ve got no sense of rhythm _at all,_ John.” Sherlock’s tone expresses bewilderment.

John shrugs, laughing “I am a _soldier_ and a _doctor_ , why would I be any good at _dancing?_ ”

Sherlock’s eyes widen and his mouth tightens. “Dancing is very _important_ , John. Dancing is _everything_ … No wonder your love life is _abysmal,_ everything is about rhythm and timing, John.” 

The ex-soldier tenses, his mood turning suddenly. “ _My_ love life,” he fumes. “My love life is fine. _Perfect_ , in fact. _I’m_ getting married!”

“Oh, don’t get _offended,_ John.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to help.” Sherlock’s face suddenly flickers in sadness, like a cloud momentarily passing over the moon, the light goes out from all his features. “I _am_ trying… quite hard.” He takes a deep breath, drawing himself up and reaches for John’s hand. John is still bristling, his jaw set in anger. He dodges his hand away, shoulders squared and firmly planted. Sherlock purses his lips, considering his friend.

“Alright then.” Sherlock’s deep voice cuts through the noise of the pub as he speaks slowly. He stares into John's eyes in that probing way that makes John feel exhilarated and exposed all at once. He puts his hand on his own chest and starts patting it in time with the beat of the music. “Hear _that_?” Sherlock tips his head to the side. John’s brow furrows and he tips his head to the side, mirroring Sherlock. “Underneath it all… _Doot -Doot -Doot -Doot,_ ” Sherlock says in time with the thumping music and his tapping hand.

Sherlock steps in closer. His hand moves from his own chest to patting John’s chest in time with the beat. John’s eyes widen slightly. “It’s like a heartbeat, John… you can move around it however you like, but we have to share that heartbeat - the _same heartbeat_ \- to stay in sync… That first. _” John nods slowly. His anger forgotten as the rhythmic tap of those fingers against his chest and those fiery eyes transfixed on him bring a new level of intoxication._

“Now we’re going to move _together,_ John… One step to the right… _now._ ” Sherlock pushes gently with his fingertips against John’s chest guiding him to the right on the beat. Sherlock moves in time with him. John smiles a little. Sherlock continues to lightly tap out the beat against his strong chest. 

“Now back. One step. Right foot first. On a beat.” John steps back and Sherlock steps forward simultaneously. “Left _now_. One step.” They move left together. “Now forward. Right foot first.” John starts to move forward. Sherlock stiffens his arm stopping him. He blinks up at the taller man in confusion. 

“I’m your _partner._ You have to _show me_ where you want me to go. You have to _tell me_ when to move,” Sherlock drawls. John’s brow furrows and he looks his friend over a moment then hesitantly places his thick hands on his friend’s small waist. He looks up at Sherlock, eyebrows arching and drawn together as if to ask if it is ok. Sherlock nods in approval, his hand never ceasing to keep time on John’s chest. He holds his other arm straight at his side. 

“We’ve made a box, see John? _Right. Back. Left. Forward_. Just keep repeating.” 

“Ok. Simple enough.” John nods and adjusts himself with a sense of purpose and determination. 

He begins moving, leading Sherlock through the steps again. He hesitates, fumbling on the first side step. 

“Be decisive, John.” Sherlock snaps. “You _are_ in charge.” John barks out a short laugh as if he seriously doubts _that_ and continues moving through the steps with more ease a third and then a fourth time. They are moving more smoothly now as they trace the same small square repeatedly. 

Sherlock places his hands on John’s shoulders. “Look at me now. Your feet will take care of themselves,” Sherlock instructs. John looks up at his friend. He clears his throat and pulls his shoulders back, standing up straighter. They continue around. 

“Now _faster._ Move on _every beat,_ John,” Sherlock orders as they begin the sequence of steps again. John quickens the pace. Sherlock smiles broadly. 

“Mmm… _Good_ … Now… don’t be _boring_ … You’ve got this whole dance floor, where do you want to take me, John?” John purses his lips a moment as he angles the taller man towards the center of the floor. Soon they are making their way around the entire floor in a quick four-step formation, spinning in fluid synchronization. They laugh, the quick pace and swirling motion making them as breathless as when they’d been running.

The song fades into a new one with a slower beat. Sherlock stops and smiles broadly grabbing John’s right hand off his waist and holding it out to the side. He is panting and his skin seems to glow; flushed with exertion. John marvels at Sherlock’s expression; relaxed, unguarded, untempered joy. He hasn’t seen that before. He hopes he can remember it later. 

“New beat. New moves,” Sherlock announces gleefully. Still holding on to John, he stands back a little so John can see his feet. “ _Quick. Quick. Slow_.” Sherlock says doing two short steps, then a bigger step. “ _Quick. Quick. Slow.”_ He demonstrates again. He steps up to John. “You lead.” John starts off.

“ _Quick. Quick. Slow. Quick. Quick. Slow.”_ They chant in unison a moment as John masters the new move. 

“This one’s _much_ easier,” John laughs as he repeats the steps and steers Sherlock into a tighter circle.

“Mmm… But a bit more _dangerous,_ ” Sherlock says letting his hips dip and swivel against John on the next slow step. John blinks rapidly, missing a beat. He gives a short laugh and nods.

“Yes, _that_ could be dangerous.” He lets his own hips swivel on the next slow step, brushing up against Sherlock. His eyes flick to Sherlock’s face to survey the reaction. Sherlock lifts an eyebrow and grins. 

“Dangerous, indeed.” 

John laughs and blushes, looking around. He is suddenly aware of where they are. The dance floor is empty besides them. Off the dance floor, in the shadows, he can barely discern the figures of men standing around tables, some in pairs. A lot seemed to be watching him and Sherlock; grinning at them, talking about them. John feels flushed with heat. 

His eyes slide past Sherlock and make eye contact with a man at a nearby table. He has brown hair and glasses and is wearing a goofy smile. 

“You two are _adorable_ ,” he says in an American accent that somehow reminds John of Anderson. He swallows hard and pushes away from Sherlock.

“You ok?” Sherlock keeps his arms out waiting for John to return to dancing. John doesn’t look up, he can feel his heart beating rapidly.

“I - I think I need some air.” John pushes through the pub as fast as he can, bumping into people and stumbling against tables as he goes. He keeps his eyes down, trying not to look at anyone. 


	4. Take Me Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have a row... well, John has a row with Sherlock like he has with the Chip & Pink because _feelings_ are frustruating.

John emerges outside and stumbles to the middle of the street where he hunches over, resting his hands on his knees and breathing hard.

Sherlock stumbles out after him a moment later, still wrestling his coat on. 

“Did you get sick?” Sherlock bumps into John as he leans over to inspect the street at John’s feet. “Might feel better if you do… _I did_.” He holds John’s coat out to him. John snatches it angrily. Sherlock stumbles back. 

“John, are you _mad_ at me?” Sherlock says slowly.

“Yes.” John spits bitterly. He whips on his jacket and starts pacing.

“Mmm… well it shows,” Sherlock muses. John stops and glares at Sherlock. Sherlock shakes his head back and forth and puts his open hands out, laughing softly.

“What’d - What did I do now?”

John isn’t sure. He just knows he is angry, but he can’t put it into words, which is all the more frustrating. His stomach is all in knots and he feels like something inside him is trying to claw it’s way out.

He throws his head back and screams haltingly at the top of his lungs, “ _Oh. My. God.”_ He turns and rushes at Sherlock, stopping short, his face close to Sherlock’s, pointing a finger angrily at him “You are so - damn - _frustrating,_ ” John growls. He turns away. Sherlock stands there a moment swaying, his face fallen.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock says quietly. His eyes are watery and his shoulders are slumping. John sits down hard on the kerb. He draws up his knees and bows his head between them, resting his hands over his head.

“I want to go home, Sherlock.” John’s voice is tight. “Can you take me home _now_?” Sherlock nods and hails a taxi. The taxi pulls up and Sherlock takes John by the arm and helps him in. He slides in after John .

Sherlock hesitates. “To Mary?” 

“No. I want to go _home_.” John says curling up in the seat facing away from Sherlock. Sherlock smiles faintly.

“221B Baker Street,” he prompts the cabbie.


	5. Behind Closed Curtains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's acting oddly.

John’s mood seems to lift as they approached the flat. He sits up as they turn onto Baker Street and is smiling again and staring out the window eagerly by the time the taxi pulls up to the kerb.

As the vehicle comes to a stop, John nearly shoves Sherlock out of the door, throwing a too large bill at the driver. 

“Go on, hurry up.” John urges in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. He pushes Sherlock in the door and up the stairs. In the rush, Sherlock stumbles and falls forward on the third step, John keeps pushing, nearly running over top of him forcing Sherlock to take two of the steps in a crawl. 

“Bloody hell, I think Mrs. Hudson is coming,” John whispers urgently. He pushes past Sherlock, reaching back down to grab his wrist and dragging him up the rest of the stairs. He tosses Sherlock into the flat’s door ahead of himself and rushes in after. He shuts the door, locking it and resting his back against it, panting as if they’d only nearly escaped something awful. 

Sherlock stands in the middle of the sitting room, disheveled, coat hanging off one shoulder looking down the hall at John with confusion. He slowly turns a circle, scanning the flat as if something in the room might hold a clue to what just happened. He turns back to John who laughs to himself and begins pulling off his coat as he staggers down the hall into the room. 

Sherlock shrugs off his own coat, pivoting to track John as he passes, heading for the sitting room window. John looks out at the street a long moment, then pulls the curtain closed. 

Sherlock unbuttons his suit coat and sinks into John’s sitting chair. His eyes follow John as he moves to the other window and pulls that curtain closed too.

“Are you worried about George?”

“Who?”

“George Lestrade…

“It’s _Greg_ , Sherlock.”

“Mmm… He’s not going to come haul us away for the _thing_ in the flat…” Sherlock slips out of his shoes and pushes them back under John’s chair with his heels. “I’ve done worse… besides, we can be complete _drunken arses_ here and we’re not bothering anybody.” Sherlock stretches out his legs, sinking further into John’s chair. 

“Right.” John says slowly. He stands by the window and stares at Sherlock. After a moment, Sherlock glances up at him and pulls himself forward in the chair. He looks at John, puzzled. 

“What’s the matter, John?” John stands very still and stares a moment longer. 

“No… I was just thinking… the _same thing_ ,” John says slowly. Then he moves briskly into the kitchen. 

Sherlock sighs and leans back again. He rubs his temples with his finger tips. He’s aware certain things, things about John, aren’t making sense. He doesn’t like it.


	6. We'll Make An Exception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things oscillating between silly and serious with impersonations and cigarettes.

John returns with two glasses of brandy. Sherlock waves his away. “I think I’ve had enough, John.”

John sits the glass on the table and stands there a moment.

“That’s _my chair_ , Sherlock.” 

“Mmm…” Sherlock runs his hands back and forth over the arms. “…I think it’s more comfortable than mine.”

“Yeah… It _is_ … That’s why it’s _mine_.” John retorts. Sherlock snorts and peers up at him sideways. 

“Well… you’re _leaving_ … maybe it can be _mine_ now.” Sherlock continues to stroke the arms.

“I’m not leaving for good.” John growls irritably. “I mean I _am_ still going to be around… Besides, _yours_ suits _you._ _Mine_ suits _me._ ” He sits his glass down beside Sherlock’s on the table and moves around to in front of his friend, hands on his hips. 

A faint smile crosses Sherlock’s lips. 

“How do you _know_ , unless you _try it?_ …” He places his foot on John’s hip and quickly straightens his leg, shoving the inebriated soldier back into his chair. John falls like a statue only half landing in the detective’s chair. Anger flickers across hisface, then he starts laughing, pulling himself up. He lets himself sink into the chair.

“Not so bad, is it,” Sherlock inquires.

John readjusts himself and looks around.

“It’s… _different_ ,” John responds thoughtfully. Sherlock shrugs. 

John suddenly sits up very straight, crosses his legs and steeples his fingers together, touching them to his lips. He narrows his eyes at Sherlock, putting on an air of superiority. “I’m Sherlock Holmes,” he says in a flat tone. “And I deduce that you’re an _idiot,_ with a _miserable_ love life, _embarrassing_ personal habits, and _pathetic_ hopes and dreams.”

“I don’t - I don’t sound like that. ” Sherlock waves a hand back and forth dismissively. He sits up in his chair, squinting at John. “And you should really be more careful, John, last time you impersonated me you almost got your little girlfriend _harpooned_.”

“Oh. Wow.” John guffaws, wheeling back. “I do believe I have struck a nerve.” 

“Pst! I have no nerves…” Sherlock puts a hand to his head. “Wait… that’s not right…” Sadness flickers over his face. “I have no _heart_ … No _heart,_ John,” he says quietly.

“Right.” John purses his lips and nods, looking away.

“Fair's fair,” says Sherlock pulling himself upright. “My turn.”

“This should be good.” John sits back resting his hand along his face, two fingers against his temple and two resting against his bottom lip. 

Sherlock squares his shoulders, puffing out his chest. He clenches his jaw, tilting his chin down to look up at John from under a furrowed brow.

“I am John Watson,” Sherlock growls. John snickers. “ _Doctor_ John Watson… _Captain_ Doctor John Watson… Doctor Captain John… _Hamish_ -”

“Oh god,” John rolls his eyes.

“-Watson… blogger _extraordinaire_ … and I am never - _never_ going to let you _ever_ forget _any_ of those things.”

“You think that’s how I am?” John laughs incredulously. 

Sherlock throws himself back in the chair, looking up at the ceiling and mumbles quietly, “Mmm…I _know_ how you are, my doctor, my jumper-clad weapon of ultimate destruction” Sherlock casually twirls a hand in the air with a downward spiraling motion whistling like the sound of a bomb falling. 

John stops laughing. His jaw clenches and he scans Sherlock. “What - what does that mean?” Sherlock gives John a once-over. “I _need_ a cigarette, John.” Sherlock surveys the room.

“You’d quit, hadn’t you?” John mumbles absently. “You’re doing well.”

Sherlock presses his fingers against his lips then sighs heavily.

“Mycroft’s right. I _am_ weak.” Sherlock scrubs a hand across his eyes, muttering, “I don't even care anymore… I just need some relief.” He hoists himself out of John’s chair and stumbles to the mantle. He starts rifling through the objects; pushing aside the happy cat, looking under the skull. Finding nothing, he moves on to the book shelf, pulling out books and letting them crash to the floor.

“Shhh!” John leaps to his feet rushing at Sherlock, eyes wide with alarm. Sherlock turns to him, squinting, his eyebrows drawn in confusion. 

“I’ll - I’ll get you _one_ … Just keep it down, Sherlock,” John whispers. Sherlock eyeballs John suspiciously then looks around the room in confusion. John straightens himself.

“It’s _my_ Stag night… we’ll make an exception.” John watches Sherlock until Sherlock nods in agreement. John smiles and dashes off, stumbling up the stairs to his bedroom. After a moment he reemerges and nearly slides down the stairs on his bottom in his haste. He re-enters the sitting room holding up a single cigarette triumphantly.

“One.” John nods at Sherlock. Sherlock slowly reaches out and takes the cigarette. His face full of confusion. 

“In your _bedroom_?” Sherlock’s whole face crumples with disbelief.

“Yeah… well… didn’t think you’d look in _there._ ” John sinks into his chair. 

Sherlock nods. “That _was_ our agreement,” he mutters. He lights the cigarette, taking a long drag, and relaxing into his own chair, letting the smoke escape slowly.


	7. Games of Strategy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John play Truth or Dare and the emotional stakes are high.

“What now then, John… on your _Stag night?_ ”

John picks up his glass of brandy off the side table. He lets the glass rest against his lips a moment, considering the dark haired man over it, then takes a slow sip. He lowers the glass, looking into it with a faint smile. “Another game?”

“Mmm.” Sherlock nods. He takes another long draw and leans back, letting the smoke billow out.

“Truth or Dare?” John offers.

Sherlock chuckles, leaning forward. “You _do_ like to live dangerously, Dr. Watson.” He lifts an eyebrow. “I have yet to lose a game of _Truth or Dare._ ”

John straightens up in his chair and leans forward mirroring Sherlock’s expression. “Neither have I.”

Sherlock chuckles and sits back. “Mmm… a formidable opponent…” He looks at the fireplace. “Though from my understanding there is not actually _losing_ or _winning_ so much as _quiting_ or managing _not_ to get arrested.” John guffaws.

“Sounds like our kind of game?” Sherlock nods. “You start then,” John offers.

“Truth or Dare, John?” John considers a moment.

“Truth.”

Sherlock nods and smiles. “Going for the safe bet.” 

John tilts his head, squinting. “Not necessarily.” 

“Ah, but the stakes are always relatively low in the beginning… Got to feel your opponent out… Can’t raise the stakes too high too fast.”

“Are we going to talk strategy or play the game?” John sits his glass on the table.

“Life is all about _strategy_ , John.” 

John opens his hands and lifts his eyebrows. “Well?”

“Mmm…” Sherlock takes another draw on the cigarette and lets the smoke drift out. He leans forward. “How many other items of mine do you have in your bedroom?” 

John sits back and clears his throat. “I might have hidden an item or two.” Sherlock points his fingers that holds his cigarette at John like a gun. 

“Rules say you _have to_ answer the question.”

John nods, smiling at the floor. “Five.” 

Sherlock arches his eyebrows and leans forward. “What are they?” 

John looks up at him with a guileful smile and waves a finger. “Your turns _over._ ” 

Sherlock grunts and smiles appreciatively. “Mmm… Well played… sticking to the wording of the question… setting up future decoys… This _is_ interesting, John. ” 

John smiles. “Truth or Dare, Sherlock?”

“Mmm… Dare,” Sherlock says with a wide mischievous smile. 

John smirks. “I want to see you wear a jumper.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “ _Dull_ … I don’t even _own_ a jumper, John.” 

“That’s the point… I’ll lend you one of mine.” John bounds up the stairs and returns with a maroon button up cardigan. Sherlock recognizes it instantly. John hands it to him smiling, Sherlock takes it and turns away.

“I thought you had taken all your clothes over to Mary’s,” Sherlock asks over his shoulder. 

John rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah… _mostly_.” John flops into his chair. “Must have missed that one.” Sherlock rubs the fabric between his fingers. He leans forward and breathes in. It smells like John but he thinks he can also detect a faint whiff of chlorine. It makes his stomach clench.

“Go on then,” chides John. “You’re always teasing me about my jumpers… I think it’s time I see the _softer side_ of Sherlock Holmes,” John laughs.

“I think I’ll leave that to you, John,” Sherlock says stiffly. He turns around holding the cardigan out towards John. 

John tilts his head, eyebrows arching. “Forfeit?… Over a jumper?”

Sherlock gimaces. He takes off his jacket, hesitates a moment, then slips the cardigan on.

John smiles up at him and nods, pressing together his lips. “Not bad… It could work for you.” Sherlock pulls at it self-consciously. He turns towards the mirror over the fireplace assessing himself. He grabs both sides of the cardigan and tries to close it around his chest but finds it a little too small. John laughs. 

“I think I’ll stick with what I _know_ works,” Sherlock says shrugging off the cardigan. He hesitates a moment. Rather than giving it back to John, he drapes it over the arm of his own chair and puts back on his suit jacket. 

Sherlock sits down and picks up his cigarette, taking short quick puffs until his lungs can hold no more. He holds it in until it burns then lets it out in one big cloud. He sits back, placing his free hand on the cardigan hanging over the arm.of his chair.

“Truth or dare, John?” 

“Truth.”

Sherlock eyes him for a moment considering. “What were you thinking that first time we met?” John’s mouth pulls down in a quick flash of thinly disguised fear. He tries to cover by pushing his chin forward and pursing his lips considerately. 

Sherlock takes this in and revises his question slightly. “I mean, you’ve said to me before that when I deduce people, like I did with you that first time, it’s like being stripped naked in front of a stranger -” John makes a noise in his throat that may be agreement but Sherlock considers the way John settles his shoulders back and grins slightly and concludes that perhaps it’s enjoyment of the imagery. Sherlock presses on. “You didn’t get offended. You didn’t resent it. I laid your life bare and you.. told me I was _amazing_.” Sherlock can’t help the wonder that still fills his voice at this. “Why?”

John settles back. He takes a pronounced drink, he blinks slowly and his head wobbles a little, a subtle, practiced way to draw attention to his own inebriated state. 

Sherlock has known his friend long enough to understand that John, while otherwise a very straightforward man, isn’t comfortable with certain personal emotions. He seems to feel it safer to share emotionally charged information after he has clearly established his own altered state - as if this permits him some retreat or plausible deniability. 

Sherlock leans forward and takes his own glass of brandy from John’s side table, taking a small sip. Sherlock has wanted the answer to this question for a long time and he doesn’t mind the pretense if it keeps John talking. John looks encouraged. He relaxes a little. 

“I suppose… I felt… _comfortable_.”

“Comfortable.” Sherlock can’t keep the slight awkwardness and distaste for this word out of his tone and diction. This is one of those subjective words whose meaning is hard to quantify. 

John smiles. Looking over the other man in his still perfectly pristine suit, he doesn’t imagine his posh companion does know what it means to be comfortable. Even after all this time. Even with John.

John scratches his head. He is slouching in his chair now, almost laying, head propped up on the seat’s back and knees wobbling back and forth so his legs splay open and closed in a strange manner. “It wasn’t like you were saying it in a judgemental way.” John gives a shrug. “I suppose it was nice to not have to explain myself… To have someone just look at you and _get it_ … get all of you…” John’s eyes seem to sparkle. “You just told me I couldn’t hide and that was… well, coming from _you_ … it was nice to be seen.” 

He suddenly sits up leaning forward. His voice is low, almost secretive. “Being dressed down and _laid bare_ by a bloody genius is not the worst thing to happen to me.” The smile and slur in John’s voice make his words almost sound like a purr. He holds Sherlock’s stare a moment longer then winks and flops back, drinking deeply from his glass.

Sherlock stiffens, sitting back in his chair. He can’t recall ever seeing John wink and is surprised at the effect it has on him; a tightening in his chest. 

_Perhaps the alcohol is getting to him after all._

His mind leaps to their first meeting and how he’d winked at John as he left the lab at Bart’s. In the cab, on the way home, he had wondered to himself why he had done that. It had just sort of _happened._ It is not a gesture he uses frequently, especially not with strangers. It implies intimacy, secrets, subtext. 

Sherlock takes a drink for real this time. He suddenly remembers he has a cigarette and sets his glass down to take a long draw on the cigarette instead.

“Shit. You’re dangerous when you’re drunk,” He mutters as smoke billows out of his mouth. His eyes flick up to John, startled by his own words. His typically carefully schooled face breaks into mortification at the realization that he had just said that out loud. John sees his friend’s distress and straightens a little, looking away.

“Dangerous when sober… far _less so_ when drunk, I’m afraid,” John says ruefully. He holds two fingers up like a gun, pointing them at the skull on the fireplace mantel. He closes one eye, pretending to sight down his fingers, noticeably wobbling them, then makes a sound like a gun firing and shrugs. “Let’s hope there are no bad guys to take out tonight.” John laughs wryly.

Sherlock lets out an inaudible sigh but his cheeks flush slightly. _Saved by John Watson._ A polite retreat. For a soldier who has fought insurgents, he has an intriguingly stubborn sense of fair play.

“Your turn, right?” John mutters peering into his glass.

Sherlock considers his options carefully. Both Truth and Dare are suddenly seeming uncomfortably risky.

“Truth,” Sherlock says slowly.

John leans forward. “What is the one thing you’ve never told anyone?”

Sherlock takes a slow draw on the cigarette, considering. He lets the smoke billow out of the corners of his mouth.

“I love you,” he says slowly. John sits back. 

“Really… no one? _Never_ said it to _anyone_ -” Sherlock studies John then rolls his eyes to the fireplace.

“I answered the question, John. My turn.”

“Dare.”

Sherlock’s cigarette is reaching its end. He looks at it with a small frown. “Sing me that song you sing in the bathtub.”

“Oh, god… you’ve heard _that_?”

Sherlock smiles. “Mmm… Several times.” John scrubs a hand over his face. 

“It’s - It’s _nothing_ … Just a song that I heard a while back and it got stuck in my head… Besides, I haven’t a very good voice.”

“It sounded _fine_ to me.”

John wets his lips, eyeing Sherlock. Sherlock does some small circles with his fingers that hold the cigarette, nodding towards John to proceed. John looks concerned. 

“I’m not going to sing the _whole thing_.”

“To the chorus then.”

John thinks a moment. “Ok.”

He leans back and closes his eyes. He starts to tap out the beat on the arm chair and with his foot. Then he begins to hum the low and mournful instrumental notes, as he rocks. Sherlock notes that John’s gravely and remarkably soulful voice is well suited for the song.

 _♫“I guess you don’t need it,_  
I guess you don’t want me to repeat it,  
But everything I have to give, I’ll give to you.  
It’s not like we planned it  
You tried to stay, but you could not stand it,  
To see me shut down slow as though it was an easy thing to do.

 _Listen when,_  
_All of this around us’ll fall over,_  
_I tell you what we’re gonna do,_  
_You will shelter me, my love_ ,  
_And I will shelter you.”♫_

John opens his eyes and is surprised to find Sherlock leaning back with his eyes closed as well, lips slightly parted, his hand absently stroking the arm of the chair that happens to be covered with John’s cardigan. John considers that it is the sort of rapturous look Sherlock sometimes has when playing the violin. John blinks and clears his throat. Sherlock opens his eyes slowly. His eyelids remain heavy.

“Mmm… no, not that one.” Sherlock draws the last of his cigarette in and grinds out the butt in the ashtray. He breathes out the words as a billow of smoke and turns quixotic eyes on John. “The one you sing when we’ve solved it… the _Heros_ one, John,” 

John stands up quickly and walks away, snatching his glass off the table as he goes.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock watches John as he stomps into the kitchen, kicking the dining room chair out of his way as he goes. John slams his glass down on the counter, opens the liquor cabinet, slams it shut, then opens it again taking out the decanter of brandy which he slams on the worktop as well.

“I thought we were being… _quiet_ … or… _something_ ,” Sherlock utters confused, his eyes wide and alert now. John stops. He puts both hands on the worktop and leans forward, breathing harshly. He stands there for a moment, hunched over. 

Sherlock gets to his feet, watching John with his brow knit in confusion.

John suddenly whirls around, moving briskly through the kitchen to stand behind his chair. He leans forward and points a finger angrily at Sherlock. “You are the most unpleasant, rude and obnoxious arsehole-”

“-Yes, that’s been well established -” Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"No! You _will_ let me finish, Sherlock,” John fumes his voice rising.

“I have been patient - god I have been _so_ patient and kind and just - just _here_ \- and you burn me. You _always_ burn me.” John is shaking now. “You don’t even _think_ about it, Sherlock. You don’t _think_ about what you’re doing to me… and I’m-” John puts his hands up in front of himself. He hangs his head and takes a step back. “I’m just done, Sherlock. I’m _done_.” John turns and storms towards the door.

“Wait, John.” Sherlock starts after him, gets as far as the hall before he realizes he isn’t wearing any shoes, and runs back to the sitting room. John wrestles with the door lock, cursing. Sherlock hears the door slam as he slips on his shoes. He grabs up John’s coat and wrestles on his own, giving a glance to the maroon cardigan draped over his chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics John didn't want to sing of the song [_Shelter_ sang by Ray LaMontange.](https://youtu.be/aHmNEQYc3js)
>
>>  
>> 
>> _I left you heartbroken, but not until those very words were spoken_  
>  Has anybody ever made such a fool out of you  
> It's hard to believe it  
> Even as my eyes do see it  
> The very things that make you live are killing you  
> Listen when all of this around us'll fall over  
> I tell you what we're gonna do  
> You will shelter me my love  
> I will shelter you  
> Listen when  
> All of this around us'll fall over  
> I tell you what we're gonna do  
> Hey you will shelter me my love  
> I will shelter you  
> If you shelter me too  
> I will shelter you  
> I will shelter you  
> 


	8. A Bit of A Domestic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have a bit of a domestic outside 221B. Feelings are revealed and Lestrade steps in.

John is already across the street when his best man bursts out the front door.

“John, come back,” Sherlock shouts. The doctor doesn’t turn back he keeps briskly walking towards the entrance to the underground. The tall, thin man runs after him. “Come on, John.”

“I’m _done,_ Sherlock,” He shouts as he holds up his hand, still walking. “Stop following me.”

Sherlock stops on the pavement, hollering after him, “I have your coat - your _wallet,_ John.” John halts abruptly. He stands there with his back turned clenching and unclenching his fists. After a moment he turns stiffly and walks back to his former flatmate. 

“I have _nothing_ more to say to you,” he mutters through clenched teeth. He glares up at Sherlock, grabbing his coat from the man's outstretched arms. Sherlock digs his fingers into the coat, refusing to release it.

“Let go,” John growls.

“Or?”

“I _will_ punch you, Sherlock” 

“That will make you feel better?”

“It might,” John hisses.

“Then _do it,_ John.” Sherlock steps closer. The inebriated blonde leans back and glares up at him. In the drab street light the doctor can now see the watery glint on those silver-blue eyes. The wideness of Sherlock's eyes and the raw pain and sadness in them make him appear incredibly young and innocent. Vulnerable. The younger man's lips are trembling. 

John presses his eyes closed, turns his head away and tips it back. His face reddens and his jaw clenches.

“No. Stop it!” John shouts. “ _You’re_ not allowed to look _like that_ Sherlock. You’re not! I’ve said I’ve had enough and you’re doing it _again._ ”

Sherlock steps back. “I’m - I’m sorry John,” he stammers confused.

John’s voice escalates. “No! No. You’re. Not. You think this is all some big _game._ Mess with John’s head. Wind me up. See how far you can push me. What did I ever do to deserve _this,_ Sherlock? What did I do to deserve _you_ doing _this_?” 

“What - What do you want me to do, John?” His usually flatly indifferent voice has a pleading tone to it but is also edged with anger.

John stiffens and lets out a grunt of a laugh. “No. _Nevermind_. I don’t know what I expected,” He bellows up into the sky. “I’m no Sherlock Holmes. I’m not _smart._ I’m not _spectacular_. I’m what people like you and Mycroft and Moriarty laugh at and call _ordinary_ ” Sherlock winces to hear his name spat from his friend's lips along sides the likes of Mycroft and Moriarty. 

“I’m OK with _that_. I was always ok with just… doing what I could…” John stops, turning sideways and looking at Sherlock. “Surely a bloody genius like you can figure out how to treat me like a goddamn _human being_ … Not something for you to play with when you’re _bored_ or when you need an ego boost - take a little kick at John and feel like a _man_.” 

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, his brows raising up on the inside corners, desperation flickering in those silvery eyes, then all the emotion suddenly drains from his features, the icy cold facade transforming him into the picture of indifference.

John nods. He turns and begins to walk away, then rounds on his former flatmate, his voice dropping lower. “What you do to me… how careless you are with me, is very…” He points a finger, then drops it, looking defeated. “Its very… _childish_ … ” His voice trails off. 

The police car makes a sharp whooping sound as it pulls up beside the taller man and the ex-soldier tosses his arms up in frustration spinning away. “And now you’re going to get me bloody arrested. _AGAIN_!” he belts. “You really are out to ruin me,” John mutters clutching his own head.

Lestrade steps out of the car. “There was a complaint of a bit of a _domestic_ in this area… How’d I know it would be my two favorite troublemakers?” His gruff affable tone seems out of place in the clear tension of the argument he’s stepped into. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his coat and ducks his head slightly in recognition of the tense situation he is thrusting himself into. 

John turns, glaring at the windows of the various flat’s as if daring the complainer to come out and face him. 

“Piss off, Lestrade.” Sherlock says quietly, trying for his usual cold dismissive tone and failing. His eyes do not move from the pavement in front of him. He is swaying, shoulders slumping and hair falling over his face, John’s coat clutched in one hand. Lestrade blinks in surprise when he thinks he sees the consulting detective's body shudder. 

The DI approaches him with practiced casualness. 

“How about we take a ride and see if we can’t find a better place to sleep this off,” Lestrade coaxes. His hand closes gently around Sherlock’s upper arm. The tall, wiry man whips around on him faster than the older man would have thought possible on a sober man much less an obviously inebriated Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s hand grips Lestrade’s wrist now and it clenches tighter as he leans forward hissing, “Leave us alone.” His face is wet and there is something vicious in those bloodshot eyes that makes the DI swallow hard and ease back. 

“Think - _Think_ it through, Sherlock.” Lestrade’s eyes flick towards the shorter, blonde man pacing back and forth on the pavement. He appears to be having a rather intense argument with himself. “ _It_ will all be sorted by the mornin’,” Lestrade says slowly. His voice drops. “ _John_ will be sorted by mornin’.” Sherlock holds Lestrade’s wrist a moment longer. His head turns to look down the pavement to John. Silhouetted in the street light, Lestrade marvels at a side of the consulting detective that he hasn’t seen before; open like a wound and hemorrhaging raw emotion. Sherlock’s face suddenly fixes in a semblance of cold determination that is very familiar to the older man. He nods his head slowly, releasing Lestrade’s now bruised wrist. The DI opens the back door of his police car. Sherlock staggers over and slides in. The DI shuts the door. He rubs absently at his wrist as he stares down the pavement.

“Now for the _other one_ ,” he sighs. He pulls himself up straighter and walks briskly towards John. “ _Captain_ John Watson.” Lestrade’s voice is loud, harsh, and he reckons commanding enough to catch John’s memory. 

John freezes, straightening. “S-Sir.” He squints at Lestrade even as his heels click together and his chest puffs out in rote muscle memory. He looks confused as the DI comes closer. 

“You need to come with me. Get in the car, Captain.” 

“Yes, Sir.” John’s voice lifts up like a question at the end as he blinks at Lestrade. He hesitates a moment then turns and marches smartly to the car.

Lestrade stifles a smile, thinking he rather likes the authority. He shakes his head, recalling the small smile he sometimes catches on Sherlock’s face when he gives John an order and the ex-soldier automatically responds.

“They’re making me into a bloody psychopath too,” he sighs.  



	9. A Too Small Cell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock find their final resting place for the night - a too small cell.

John steps up to Lestrade who is standing in the door of the cell. His voice is an angry whisper. “I’m _not_ going to spend the night in _here_ with _him_. Find me another cell,” he demands.

“Haven’t the room… I’m doin’ you a favor as it is, John… Keepin’ it off the books.” Lestrade raises up a little to look over the stout blond's shoulder at Sherlock, slumping forward on the bench along the back wall. His voice grows louder. “You boys ’ll just have to work out your differences - _kiss and make up_ , so to speak,” he chides with a dry smile. Sherlock snorts. John tenses and moves forward, his fists clenching. 

Lestrade steps back, startled, his hand instinctively raising to his holster. He knows that look, though he’s _never_ seen it on John’s face. _That_ is the bone-chilling, icy, cold look that a man has right before he inflicts great violence on someone. 

“John.” Lestrade’s voice is a warning. The ex-soldier remains tensed; white hot rage in his eyes. Lestrade draws himself up slightly. “Stand down, John,” Lestrade says in a commanding voice. Those dark blue eyes narrow slightly and he forces his fists open with obvious strain. He turns away, stalking over to the wall and standing facing it, clenching and unclenching his fists. 

Lestrade lets his muscles relax. He glances over at Sherlock, wondering if it is safe to leave him with the ex-soldier in his current state. Sherlock meets his stare and gives a subtle nod.

The Detective Inspector reckons he’s narrowly escaped a pummeling by both Sherlock Holmes and John Watson tonight, on separate occasion, and he best quit while ahead. _They can knock each other silly if so inclined_. “Alright, then.” Lestrade sighs and slides the cell door closed. “Be back for you boys in the morning.”

John turns his back to the wall, leaning back and sliding down to sitting on the floor. The silence settles around them. He hates the too small cell with only Sherlock to look at. He tries to close his eyes but he can hear his companion’s every breath and, as much as he tries to fight it, his own breaths fall into natural synchronization with Sherlock’s.

The dark, curly head of the consulting detective remains hung. “Well _that_ … _that_ escalated quickly,” he remarks with a short mirthless laugh. 

John stifles the urge to grunt in agreement or quip how it had gone in _completely_ the _wrong direction_ because, for all his talk of _strategy_ , the genius is apparently _rubbish_ at games of strategy. 

“Both failed to _not_ get arrested… suppose that makes it a tie,” Sherlock’s voice tinges with that dark humor in its vaguely sardonic tone. 

John fights back a smile. ‘ _Shit body -always betraying me’_ he thinks bitterly.

With a groan Sherlock lays himself out across the hard bench. He rolls to his back and steeples his fingers, letting himself retreat into his Mind Palace.


	10. John's Mind Palace Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock retreats to John’s room in his Mind Palace to work out the night's events and piece together all the new clues.

Sherlock settles down on the couch in John’s room in his Mind Palace. The ex-soldier room is by far the most interesting room and by now, perhaps the largest, though it still seems to give the familiar and cozy air of a well cared for flat.

In John’s room, unlike the rest of the Palace, things sometimes change without him intentionally initiating it. 

The couch, for instance, had been much smaller in the beginning, a sturdy but well worn utilitarian piece that yielded when you sank into it. He finds it larger in size each time he returns so that it now takes up a significant part of the middle of the room and resembles a bed more than any sofa. The wood that was once square and clunky has taken on more curved forms; arching and intertwining in an intriguing sculptural ways. And the once dull and rough texture of its wood is now polished to a deep, rich finish. It always appears as if it might be slick to the touch. Sometimes he catches a somehow familiar ripple of movement running through it. 

He pulls out the file on the Stag night and flips to the end. A picture slides out onto the sofa; maroon cardigan against a shimmery liquid blue background. 

“Yes, _that_ was where it changed.”

As he lifts the file a quiet clink, like a metal pin falling against glass, makes him look down at the floor as a cigarette comes to rest against his foot. He picks it up and rolls it around in his fingers. 

“Or maybe it started _there_.” 

Sherlock looks up. A staircase appears in the corner of the room trailing up into darkness. 

He has never seen his flatmate’s room. He has, as their agreement outlined, stayed out of John’s _‘one sanctuary._ ’

John has been in his room, though.

A projector suddenly rattles, playing a scene on the wall. 

> _A distorted image of John crosses from the door to where Sherlock is on the floor of his room and picks him up; arms around his chest, throwing him on the bed like so much dead weight. Covers fall over Sherlock, then he feels the slight pressure on his hip, the doctor's hand pressing down. The audio echos over an old speaker. John’s voice, “I’m in the next room if you need me.”_
> 
> The scene flickers. _Sherlock’s view pans from The Woman’s phone in his hand up to John, peering in the doorway of his room. Hideous Christmas jumper… _Sherlock wonders if it is clever… seems so deceptive to hide what is clearly a dangerous weapon beneath something so painfully ordinary_ … Sherlock rises up, John’s concerned face disappears behind a closed door._

He looks back at the darkness at the top of the stairs. 

“Oh, but I _am_ in John’s room, or more accurately, pieces of me are.”

_5 things. 5 things and a single cigarette._

He hears a noise like a door squeaking on its hinges. A sliver of light appears at the top of the stairs revealing that the door is open a crack. He smiles.

He turns his eyes to the picture in his hand. The maroon cardigan. 

“John took all his clothes to Mary’s but he left the red cardigan in his room. _Why?_ … Does he know?”

The projector begins to play again and he presses his eyes closed a moment then forces himself to look up. It is in vivid technicolor this time. 

>   
>  _John leaps forward, his arms closing around Moriarty’s body. “Run, Sherlock. Run.”_
> 
> _“You rather showed your hand there, Dr. Watson.” Moriarty purrs at the fringes of Sherlock’s vision. He can’t see Moriarty because all he can see now is John. Every bit of his vision is filled with the ex-soldier. The expression on his friend's face moves from determination and passion and… _love?_ … enough to sacrifice himself to save Sherlock to terror and pained defeat as he sees the sighting dots slide up his body to Sherlock’s head. _

The screen flickers and skips forward. 

>   
>  _He now sees his hands tearing at the bomb vest, frantically ripping it from John and sliding it away across the tile floor. When his eyes move up to to his friend again he is standing there with that maroon cardigan, unbuttoned and hanging open like a cadaver’s flayed heart._
> 
> _Such a wave of relief and… Sherlock is moving towards John… but… his body keeps moving… and he is out in the hall… he sees his hands trembling in the dark even as one still clutches John’s gun. He hears his own ragged breath and his heart’s erratic thump is deafening in his ears… he takes deep breaths… Then he is emerging back into the pool area… eyes finding John collapsed against the wall… He can see it in the man's eyes, hear it in the tone of his remark that thinly disguises his own clearly misplaced thoughts - he had wanted and needed more from Sherlock. He’d needed to be embraced, held up, comforted… then the dots reappear on John’s chest and the look on his face reverberates through Sherlock… a certainty that now they will never get a second chance._

“Bit _not good_.” He looks up to see John standing by the sofa looking towards the projection. The projector clicks off.

“What is the appropriate way to act after a criminal mastermind attempts to kill you,” Sherlock retorts annoyed.

“I’d _killed_ a man for you… Just offered to die _for you_ … Wouldn’t have been a stretch to give a bloke a hug.” The facsimilie of John shrugs, his maroon cardigan falling open more. The doctor's eyes move from the wall to the staircase in the corner.

“I don’t _do_ hugs, John.” 

John is at the foot of the staircase now looking up. “We both know that’s not exactly true,” he responds distractedly.

Sherlock looks down at the file. It was hardly worth trying to deny it. This John has access to all parts of his Mind Palace. Since he is a part of it, there is no way to deny him or contain him. He did try, for a time. 

He feels the sofa dip and looks up to see John is now sitting next to him. He is looking down at the file too. He touches his finger to the corner of the photo of the cardigan and makes a sound in his throat, his eyebrows lifting. 

“You started it,” Sherlock grumps glaring into those deep blue eyes, always lit from within. “That wasn’t a very fair move bringing _this_ into the game.”

“Does it bother you?” John looks down touching the cardigan he’s wearing. 

“Yes.”

“How would I know?… I’ve worn it since then, you know. You never say anything.”

“What would I say?”

“Besides…” John continues as if not hearing Sherlock’s question. “My favorite _‘high functioning sociopath’_ doesn’t feel things _like that._ ” He points at the ceiling and Sherlock’s voice plays over the speakers.

>   
>  _“I have no heart… No heart, John,”_ the recording echos. 

“I don’t mind,“ He places a hand on Sherlock’s knee and removes it with a shrug. He pulls at his cardigan.

“But that _must_ mean something to _you,_ ” The consulting detective persists, pointing at the photo.

John laughs. “ _Obviously_ … You don’t forget things like this… when you’re _sentimental_.” Sherlock examines this John harder. If his mind had collected the clues, they would all be there, concentrated in this facsimile before him. 

“I’m missing something.” 

“Clearly.” John’s eyes lift to the staircase again, smiling.

“What?” 

The doctor smiles patiently and points to a paper in the file. A transcript of the night’s conversation. “You didn’t really say _it._ ”

“I _did_ … You asked me what I’d never told anyone and I said-”

“That’s not the same.”

“I can’t help that _you’re_ an _idiot_.” 

John purses his lips and turns his head slightly “Two ways to interpret your response… Which one is going to make the _most sense_ based on our understanding of -” John reaches for his leg, hesitating, then vanishes. 

Sherlock looks around. He finds his John standing in the far corner gazing at a painting. He joins his friend.

“ _Der Wanderer über dem Nebelmeer_ : Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog,” Sherlock notes looking at the painting and considering it. 

In the foreground, a dark lean figure of a man stands upon a rocky precipice facing away from the viewer. His deep green coat appears caught in the wind as the stick or cane in his right hand rests on the rocks. He gazes out on a landscape covered in a thick sea of fog.

John tilts his head, smiling. “Romanticism…”

Sherlock turns his gaze on him.

“Why did the song make you so angry?

John continues to look at the painting. He reaches out and runs his finger along the cane in the man’s hand. “Why did you want me to sing it?”

“It’s practically… it’s apparently… about _us_.” John glances at his companion, then looks down. 

Suddenly the ex-soldier is in an army uniform. He looks tense, haggard but younger.

“What do _you_ know about _me_?”

“Expert marksman… Nerves of steel… Self sacrificing… loyal… strong moral code…”

“And…” John glances around. 

Sherlock examines him, circling. “Wounded. Traumatized…”

“And?” John moves towards the detective, gun drawn, then suddenly stops and holsters his weapon.

Sherlock shakes his head, loathe to admit he doesn’t understand, his lips pulling into a tight frown. The soldier vanishes.

“How did I play the game,” John inquires. He is now by the projector, wearing his maroon cardigan, button down shirt and jeans. 

On the wall the image flickers. 

> _John is pretending his fingers are a gun, pointing it at the skull on the mantel._

“You always gave me an exit,” Sherlock sighs.

“ _Rules of Engagement_ … Always leave a path for retreat… then there is still a chance to lay down arms and withdraw…” The doctor pulls at his cardigan again. “No unnecessary casualties.”

“Is that why you keep oscillating?”

“I _always_ have an exit strategy.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “But… with me… we go into dangerous situations-”

“That’s because I _trust_ that you have a plan or… that your gigantic brain will figure something out.”

“ _That’s_ ridiculous.”

“Aren’t we, though.” John’s eyes lock with Sherlock’s for a second then he winks and disappears.

The detective places a big glowing exit sign on the wall of John’s room. The arrow points to the word, not to the door.

John is by the record player now. Over the speakers his muffled voice plays with pauses and the sound of water splashing.

> _…Though nothing will drive them away_  
>  We can beat them, just for one day  
>  We can be Heroes, just for one day
> 
> _And you, you can be mean_  
>  And I, I’ll drink all the time  
>  ‘Cause we’re lovers, and that is a fact  
>  Yes we’re lovers, and that is that
> 
> _Though nothing, will keep us together_  
>  We could steal time,  
>  just for one day  
>  We can be Heroes, for ever and ever  
>  What d'you say?
> 
> _I, I can remember_  
>  Standing, by the wall  
>  And the guns, shot above our heads  
>  And we kissed, as though nothing could fall  
>  And the shame, was on the other side  
>  Oh we can beat them, forever and ever  
>  Then we could be heroes, just for one day

John lifts the needle off the record and the room goes silent. “No chance for retreat _there_ ,” he says ruefully. 

The blond tips back his head and looks up at a patch of the ceiling that is cut away to reveal of swath of night sky. He smiles.

Sherlock tips his head back as well. “What do you see?” 

“Beautiful.” John sighs. Sherlock’s eyes turn back to him and he studies his friend for a long moment. He knows every detail of this face, rapt with awe, yet he never tires of seeing it. He is certain he has never seen something as arresting as _that face,_ soldier hardened and doctor remote, with open admiration writ large on every feature.

John walks towards the sofa and takes off his cardigan. He lays it down across the foot of the bed-like contraption. 

“Don’t do that,” Sherlock frowns. 

The doctor looks towards the door. “Sorry, mate, games over… Time to put away _childish things_ and become a _man._ ”

Sherlock hears a screech and a slam and turns to see the staircase disappear. When he turns his eyes back to where John had been there is only emptiness.


	11. Kiss in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long awaited, bitter-sweet conclusion to the story.

John's eyelids flutter. For a moment the darkness of the room is so complete he can't tell if his eyes are open. He can feel the cold of the cement block along his back and the concrete beneath his legs. The memory of where he is begins to drift back and his groan reverberates against the walls of the cell.

As John begins to move in earnest, he is suddenly aware of something softly brushing across his neck. His hand lifts to it and closes around long, slender fingers tracing the line of his jaw. He knows them at once.

"Sherlock," John whispers confused. He releases the hand to cast his own out into the darkness trying to find a solid body. The sinewy figure eludes him. 

The delicate hand hesitates then continues around John's chin, with gentle persistence that John knows to be cataloging through touch each curve and dip of the bristly line of his jaw. 

He doesn't shy away from this scrutiny any more than he would from Sherlock’s typical analyzing stares. He just waits to be weighed and measured by that spectacular brain that finds the whole world wanting. He lets his eyes slide close and imagines there is something tender in that evaluative touch. He is vaguely aware he still has a nice buzz of alcohol making him feel heavy and loose. 

The hand at last stills beneath John’s chin and tips it up slightly. 

"You..." comes a voice so silky and husky that he can scarcely believe it is Sherlock's. John's eyes snap open and his breath catches in his throat.

_Dreaming?_

He still can't see anything but he strains his eyes to find some form in the darkness. A deeper shade of black shifts with a cat-like, slinking movement to his right.

"May I.." The voice entreats. He can hear the strain underpinning its tone. Some thread of pain and want, like... _longing_? John isn't sure exactly what Sherlock is asking of him but he doesn't care. He rarely does when it comes to Sherlock.

"Yes," he states confidently. “Whatever… yeah, Sherlock. It's fine.” John's head feels a bit unhinged from his neck as he nods up and down and he snorts at the sensation. 

He closes his eyes again, waiting and trying to puzzle out what Sherlock wants of him. It is difficult for the doctor to follow Sherlock's thoughts even when he is firing on all cylinders. With the fog of a few too many drinks still swaddling his brain, keeping up seems an impossible task. So, instead he tries to envision the expression to accompany that entreating voice. It's the subtle undercurrent of want that pulls at John's thoughts. It is so odd for any emotion aside from indifference or annoyance to make it into Sherlock's tone. And this… this sounded almost like _desire._

_My kingdom for a torch._

John contemplates hazily if his friend is wearing a teasing sneer, or that open vulnerability that he so rarely glances, or maybe… John tries to conjure up what Sherlock would look like when he feels lust… Assuming he can even feel that sort of thing (and this was a rather presumptuous conjecture since Sherlock had never provided any signs of interest or capacity for such things). John imagines his look would be some mix of that almost primal need that he demonstrated when he was trying to quit smoking and had really bad cravings and the unassailable, intense focus of when he is so close to solving a case. To be the recipient of _that look_ … John shivers under this imagined stare.

 

The hand skims around John's chin, thumb brushing over his lips slowly. John feels a jolt as he is struck with the realization that the unspoken request is a kiss. 

"God, yes," John breathes, and it feels like relief flooding his body, relaxing him further. He smiles and reaches out again, hoping to snag and draw in the other man before there can be any interference. He can find nothing. 

“Sherlock?” John's effort to control his voice makes it a low, almost growling question. He clears his throat and wets his lips but there is no response for so long that John brushes his fingers over the hand poised motionless cupping his chin.

"One." Sherlock's voice says finally; not a question but a firm statement.

"Ok." John nods and his response is almost followed by a giggle. He can't help it; something is bubbling up inside him like anticipation and joy. He is giddy. 

The thumb brushes his lips again, and he parts them, his tongue flicking out to greet it as he pushes forward. He sucks on it swirling and flicking his tongue with reckless abandon at this little piece of Sherlock. The hand shudders and withdraws.

Owing to the fog of alcohol, it takes John a moment to figure out that the hand isn't coming back and he tumbles headlong into guilt and desperation.

"Wait." John reaches out grasping at the empty air. "I didn't mean to… Sherlock?..." John waits and listens. He can hear ragged breaths but can't place them. 

"I can't... that's - that's too much, John..." Comes an unsteady and slightly panicked response. It brings to mind Sherlock's manic reaction by the fireplace at the little Kross Keys Inn after seeing the drug-enhanced hound. The realization that Sherlock is afraid shoots a pain through John's stomach and his hand begins to ache in that familiar way that always makes him have to clench and unclench it.

"I'm sorry..." John runs his hands through his hair, grabs and pulls a little to try to bring his thoughts into focus. He feels a weight sinking into his chest and he wants to vomit. He curls in on himself; head resting on his drawn up knees. 

"Please... I'm sorry... I won't..." He can only hear his own breath and the drumming of his own heartbeat in his ears. 

_Not a dream. A nightmare. Screwed it up again, Watson_

He lifts his head and strains to make something emerge from the darkness. He longs for his friend’s gift for the spoken word so he could say something to turn this situation around. 

"It's my Stag night, Sherlock," John says trying to sound chipper but his voice sinks under the weight of the unspoken implications. He knows there's a thread of desperation undercutting his tone. _There is no tomorrow._ He lets his forehead drop to his knees again with a dejected groan. The silence stretches.

"We'll make an exception." Sherlock's disembodied voice says slowly and there is something of sudden recognition tinged with sadness in the way those words hang in the air. John doesn't need to be able to see his longtime companion to know the look on his face. It is the anguished look he has when all the pieces of a puzzle slide together a moment too late. Hope begins to unwind John's body from its crumpled state.

"It's not too late," John breathes. The darkness shifts.

"One," Sherlock commands.

"One," John agrees eagerly. "I'll behave," he adds feeling a bit like a scolded child. He isn't altogether sure he is capable of upholding that promise but he will try. 

There is a pause and John feels the darkness gather in a deep breath. Then he feels firm pressure on his knees as they are pushed down flat against the floor so that his legs are straight in front of him. Sherlock slides into his lap, a knee coming to rest at each of John's hips. Lean thighs cage his legs and the man's firm buttock rests against the tops of John's thighs. 

John can't stop the sigh that escapes his lips. A thrill radiates like streaks of fire through him settling into a tightly coiled ball of heat low within his gut. His mind becomes sharp and he is suddenly very aware of the the rapid hammering of his blood through his veins. The air around him seems thinner.

His hands start to automatically go up to clutch Sherlock, but stop, hovering close enough to feel his heat. He doesn't want to ruin it again. He struggles against urges welling inside him to touch, to lean in, to buck up seeking more pressure and contact. The effort makes his whole body tremble and he starts to sweat. 

John presses his eyes close. This is likely the _one and only_ time he is going to get to kiss Sherlock Holmes and he refuses to be a throbbing, quivering pile of need.

“May I?” he asks as calmly as he can manage, ghosting the tips of his fingers over the narrow hips he longs to sink his fingers into. 

There is a sound like a hiss from Sherlock and suddenly each of his hands are seized by the wrist and John feels Sherlock tuck each one under the man's bent legs and kneel on them. His hands are now effectively pinned to the floor under Sherlock's boney knees. 

John is about to protest when two large hands come up and trap his jaw on each side and he feels Sherlock's breath fan over his face as he leans so close John swears he can feel the vibration of the growled words on his own lips. 

“Let me be clear, John Watson, _I_ am kissing _you_. I am the aggressor. And if you remember this tomorrow, which I sincerely hope you do _not_ , there will be no guilt or shame or some idiotic notion of regret on your part. No. If tomorrow you find yourself with some recollection of this moment you will recall this only in the context that I took advantage of a drunk friend and that you had _nothing_ to do with it. You could not stop it, you were a victim. You will shove this way down deep where you keep all those things you never talk about. If it should ever emerge and, for some absurd notion of morality, you should feel inclined to share this incident with your bride-to-be know you choose to do so to humiliate me _not_ to relieve yourself of some imagined burden of guilt. The only guilty party in this is _me_ , and as such I will take disclosure as an indication that you wish to terminate our acquaintance because _this_ is a foolish act _on my part_ and to expose it would be a very ignoble and contemptible act. You know how much I _hate_ looking foolish John Hamish Watson.” 

John is stunned and confused. He nods quickly within the tight grasp. He cannot fathom why Sherlock is so adamant in absolving him of guilt. John had been practically pleading for this just a moment earlier.

“Why?” John breathes.

He hears the sigh from Sherlock and feels his body sink against his own. Sherlock always hates his propensity to ask _‘why’_. The _‘what’_ and _‘how’_ of things is so much easier for the consulting detective. 

“Because you love _her_ and _I_ … I am an idiot, John.” 

John feels Sherlock on the edge of saying something more and starts to press him to speak, but then Sherlock’s supple lips are smashed against his; warm and soft. His head is swirling with the exhilarating sensations coursing through his body. 

The kiss is hesitant at first. After the initial thrust to shut John up, Sherlock pulls back a little sliding against John's more delicate lips in an endearingly unpracticed manner. John feels the longing in it; the blind desire trying to work itself into expression and he responds with gentle encouragement even as he feels his own soul breaking loose from his body; only tethered to this moment by the pressure and heat of those lips against his own. 

He tips his head to provide a better angle and deepens the kiss. He sighs into Sherlock’s lips as they quickly become more enthiastic and provocative. Their lips slide into hot and wet, wide, open mouth kisses that makes John certain he is about to be consumed. It is thrilling and intoxicating. Mind-blowing; like the man himself. 

They groan in tandem as John experimentally flicks his tounge out and it meets with Sherlock’s own tounge. It sends an electric bolt through John's body and his hips thrust up of their own accord. 

Sherlock gasps and breaks away suddenly. When John's mouth tries to follow he shoves both palms against John's chest and thrusts him away so violently the back of John's head smacks against the wall with an echoing crack. 

Sherlock hisses as if he has been burned and leaps off of John quickly, retreating back into the indiscernable darkness. 

John is left panting, feeling more intoxicated than can be accounted for by the lingering effects of alcohol and distinctly aware of the heat and pain of his body's need. He feels overwhelmingly exhausted too, as if Sherlock’s retreat had taken with it all his life force and he is now a hollow husk. 

“Christ, Sherlock...Can't we just-”

“No. 

“I-I want -”

“It will never work. You don't really want _this_ John.”

“Christ. Why don't you let me decide that, Sherlock?”

“You already have, John.”

“No. You were gone and-”

"No. It's more than that…” There is a pregnant silence. John finally feels capability to move coming back and he rubs gingerly at his sore wrists and then the bank of his head. 

“She makes you happy. You need her, John. Mary is… good… She's good for you... She can actually love you back.” John stares into the formless dark and feels cold.

“No one's like you, Sherlock… And you can-”

“I can't,” Sherlock growls.

“You already have, though… all the things you've done-” 

“No. I can't love you. Not in the one way it counts… I can't, John… you need things that... I'm just _not_ … You know that... A part of you does. That's why I can't win with you, John. When I am the machine I am met with disappointment and disdain. When I am the man I am met with anger, frustration and rejection. Either way it's not enough. _I'm_ not enough, John.”

“No. It's just because I didn't think-”

“You know you can't have the kind of life you deserve with just me. The more I try to keep you safe the more danger you will be in. A lifetime of cold bodies and greasy take away is bound to lose it's appeal and then you'll hate me for the life you never got to have… You will never be safe or happy with me. I am who I am, John. ” 

John sighs heavily. He is fatigued from the emotional rollercoaster of the evening. He is half drunk, more than a little aroused and far too overwheled for this conversation. His thoughts are as dense as cotton candy, spinning thickly in his head. He can't win arguments with his genius best friend even under the best of circumstances, it is utterly hopeless in his current state.

“Sherlock,” John breathes and it has a sadness and pleading edge to it. He lifts a leaden hand into the nothingness and sets it back down dejectedly.

“It's ok, John,” Comes a choked whisper. “Tomorrow it will all be as it was… and… at least we had this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks for reading! Take a second to show some love. Your kudos and comments feed my soul!**

**Author's Note:**

> Now split into bite size litlle chapters


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